‘Okay, I’m listening. Tell me more.’
‘No one actually saw this guy, Adam Mosson, step in front of the train. I believe he was either pushed or someone forced him into doing it.’
‘And you’re basing that on what exactly?’
Narey took another deep breath. ‘I think Mosson is linked to another case and another death.’
Addison’s eyes narrowed and a scowl formed on his lips. ‘Okay, why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this?’
Narey’s gaze fell to the floor as she developed a sudden interest in Addison’s office carpet. He wasn’t going to be diverted though.
‘Rachel, what is this other fucking death?’
‘Laurence Paton.’
‘Oh, for fucksake. You have got to be bloody kidding me. Get out. Get out my fucking office now. As if I’ve not got enough shit to put up with without you making it worse. Go on, beat it, before I put you back in uniform and have you cleaning up tramps’ puke.’
‘Hear me out. Please?’
Addison’s head fell into his hands as he melodramatically let out a muffled scream. As he sat back up he blew out an exaggerated puff of air and glanced at his watch.
‘It’s only ten o’clock and I’m already wondering when I can get a drink. That’s not a good sign so this better be bloody good. I told you to forget this Paton shit.’
‘Yes, sir. I know. And I had,’ she lied. ‘Then this Mosson thing came up and…’
‘What makes you think they’re linked?’ he asked wearily.
‘Two deaths: one seemingly an accident; the other seemingly a suicide. I don’t think either were what they seemed. Paton and Mosson were both teachers…’
‘That’s it? They were both teachers? Jesus Christ, we’d better get a warning out to Professor Dumbledore. Tell him he might be in danger. Teachers? Is that all you’ve got?’
Narey realised how thin it sounded but couldn’t tell Addison about the other link. They only knew about the adamski email address because Tony and Danny had broken into Paton’s house and hacked into his computer. Addison wasn’t going to thank her for telling him that.
‘Fucksake, Rachel,’ Addison continued to rant. ‘Mosson was from Glasgow, I take it. Your man Paton was a teacher in bloody Stirling.’
‘Yes, but Paton is originally from Glasgow and he studied here.’
‘God help me,’ Addison muttered before lapsing into a dour silence, his feet back up on the desk again.
‘Where?’ he asked at last.
‘Where what?’
‘Where did he study? Jordanhill?’
‘I assume so, yes,’ Narey told him.
‘Don’t assume anything. If you do, you make an ass out of you. Not me. Go to Jordanhill and check out the student records. Come back to me with something that actually links Paton and Mosson and we’ll see. Until then, drop the fucking conspiracy theories and do some proper work. You hear me?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And don’t “yes, sir” me because it only makes me think you’re up to something.’
‘Yes…’
Narey closed the door behind her, nothing more than a faint smile on her lips, leaving Addison to resume his challenge with his paperwork and the wastebasket. It was probably for his own good she hadn’t told him she’d already phoned the college and been told that Paton and Mosson had indeed enrolled at Jordanhill in the same year. Now she was going to find out who else had been there with them.
CHAPTER 26
Finding someone in Glasgow who is ‘hurting people’ is not so much like looking for a needle in a haystack; it’s more like looking for hay in a haystack, knowing the haystack might head-butt you at any minute. Rachel had left the search to Winter and Danny, making it pretty clear she thought the whole gypsy thing was probably a wild-goose chase. Between Paton and her regular caseload, she told them, she didn’t have time to run down the Sam Dunbar lead as well.
She had also warned Winter off going to get help from Addison. She was taking too many risks as it was and didn’t want Addison getting a sniff of what she was doing. He would inevitably ask Winter why the hell he’d been out to Stirling talking to the travellers in the first place. In fact, the very mention of Stirling would have Addison launching into a suspicion-fuelled rant.
Worse still, they knew it might all be a complete waste of time. There was a very good chance that Tommy Baillie was playing them for his own ends but he still represented the only apparent lead they had if the gypsy connection were to stand up.
That was why Winter and Danny were slowly working their way through an assorted selection of cops, criminals and contacts in an attempt to get a handle on Sam Dunbar. They were all people who could be asked questions without them feeling the need to ask why. Instead, they exchanged scraps of information in return for a few quid, a few pints or a favour owed. Inevitably, there was no end of ‘people hurting’ reported back to them but none of it added up to much of any use. Instead, the usual suspects had been hurting the usual bampots by the usual methods. Baseball bats, stabbings and heavy bruises were the order of the day from Possil to Partick.
The name Sam Dunbar meant nothing to any of them until they sat down in the Whistlin Kirk at Glasgow Green with a mechanic named Shug Brennan. The guy was a contact of Danny’s from way back, a cut and shut expert of some renown whose talents were still in demand from those who couldn’t get all the services they required at Kwik Fit. Shug was the sort of happy drinker who got told all sorts of things and was happy to share them with Danny as long as his glass got topped up and his back pocket bulged with spending money.
Winter hadn’t met the guy before but as soon as they walked into the Whistlin Kirk, he recognised Shug from Danny’s description. The shock of unruly hair was unmissable and its colour seemed to defy nature by existing outwith the confines of a cartoon. It was hair so ginger Winter thought it must have come out of a tin of paint. Shug was known as Irn-Bru Brennan because his hair was the precise colour of the fizzy brew that claimed to be Scotland’s other national drink. It wasn’t Irn-Bru that was in front of Shug though, it was lager, and Danny went straight to the bar and bought him a fresh one along with a couple of Guinness for himself and Winter.
The Whistlin Kirk was a Celtic pub, which suited Winter and Danny just fine. The green leather seating was matched with whitewashed walls lined with retro Guinness signs above the oak panelling. It was the kind of pub where the only two things on offer were booze and chat. Shug was positioned in a corner under a sign declaring ‘Guinness gives you strength’, far enough away from anyone else that they could talk without being overheard. Even if the punters smelled cop, his age would have made them think their senses needed retuning. They slid in beside Shug, Danny introducing Winter with a brief nod and just two words, ‘Tony. Shug.’
From the point Winter was offered a grudging nod from the Irn-Bru Man, he became part of the furniture as Danny and Shug talked turkey. It was just the way Winter liked it: he was always happier as an observer, sitting back comfortably and watching the play unfold. As the other two men talked, Winter took in Shug’s rosy cheeks and reddened nose, which could have been put down to the weather outside but probably wasn’t, his nicotine-stained fingers, muscled arms and pot belly. He was no hard man, not by Glasgow standards, but he’d be able to look after himself and, given the nature of his trade, he’d probably have to. The remainder of his first pint disappeared at a rate of knots and a large gulp of the second followed suit after a cursory wipe of his mouth with the back of his hand. Shug spoke quietly, probably the only person in the pub who was doing so, his gravelly cigarette tones disappearing within a few feet of their table.